


pick a flower (ow!)

by wilbursoot



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adoption, Crying, DadSchlatt, Drinking, Emotional Baggage, Family Dynamics, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Self-Reflection, Single Father Jschlatt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28150296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilbursoot/pseuds/wilbursoot
Summary: schlatt’s willpower wavers when his son, tubbo, finally reaches sixteen. it’s tough for any parent to loosen the reigns, but for him, it takes the familiar hit of whiskey to the back of his throat to remind him that tubbo isn’t his little bumblebee anymore.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 212





	pick a flower (ow!)

“where are you three goin’ this time?”

”i don’t know,” tubbo replied, voice muffled through the light meal of bacon and scrambled eggs that he had shoveled into his mouth. schlatt sighed, turning back to his own eggs, which he was still poking at with a wooden spoon. his mind drifted to the memory of his two friends: a tall lanky teenager, practically an adult, who’s wardrobe of dark clothes and identical beanies didn’t impress schlatt and a more excitable, blue-eyed blond who’s accent was thicker than the unruly mutton chops clinging to schlatt’s cheeks. that’s what he gets for moving to britain. a bunch of men with accents and sticks up their asses. the walls of their house were thin; he could hear how excited tubbo was talking to them, how he inadvertently took on their accent as his own, having known nothing but tea and crumpets since early youth. but schlatt couldn’t just move back to america now. new york was out of the question— the mere thought of paying that rent made his already empty pockets ache.

and it hurt him to think how much the move would dampen tubbo’s smile. a mere reference to moving out of their cramped flat to one on the outskirts of london made him frown, but he knew that a move to the states would bring tears to his eyes. he knew his son better than anybody, and hopefully better than that damn wilbur and tommy did. it felt strange, though, knowing that his angel had secrets locked behind his lips. it’s a part of any teenager’s life, growing up to keep revelations away from the seemingly prying eyes and ears of parents, but all that schlatt could remember were the moments in tubbo’s life where he was waddling around in one of his shirts, watching saturday cartoons and eating bland cereal, complaining about the taste but being placated as his father, his own personal hero, came in to amuse him with stories, poorly-drawn crayon pictures, and goofy faces.

”dad.” his son’s voice swiftly cut through the fog that clustered around his aging mind. “the eggs. you’re gonna burn them.”

schlatt looked down at the congealed eggs, biting back a curse as they clung to the pan in white-and-yellow streaks. he stabbed at the pepper-speckled mass for a few seconds before aborting the mission, turning on the sink so that cold water was running and throwing the pan in, spoon and all. he shook his head at the loss of his breakfast, feeling a pang in his stomach as he latched a finger back around the metal faucet and shut it down. a few dishes, smudged with the remnants of their previous meals, laid in the sink, unwashed. he had meant to do them yesterday—they were running out of clean plates and utensils to use—but the lull of sleep after a long day of getting his ears assaulted by the sound of broken cars and his nose annoyed by the toxic whiffs of gasoline had left a lot of chores undone. and now the smell of coffee, black without any milk or creamer, lured him away from getting at least one of those chores knocked out early in the day.

at least it was sunday, the one day where he didn’t have to bust his ass getting up at five am, have tubbo’s breakfast made by six, and then leave at seven so that tubbo would have to wake up to his alarm in an empty house and spend those few crucial minutes between the waking world and his dreams all alone. he didn’t know what his son did then, whether he stayed tucked in for a few minutes longer or got up early and sat at the table with his phone out like he wasn’t allowed to do when his father was around. it was just another one of those little secrets that nagged at the back of his mind. he didn’t bother sating his curiosities by asking; at sixteen, children were supposed to have some inkling of independence to get them at least somehwhat prepared for the real world.

the doorbell rang, prompting tubbo to get up. he set his plate in the sink, adding one more obstacle for schlatt to climb over during the day, before slowly sipping down a few more mouthfuls of cheap chamomile tea. schlatt smiled at the excitement that painted his son’s face as he stared down at the phone pulled out of his back jean pocket. without thinking, he uttered to him, “have fun, bumblebee.”

they both paused at the doting nickname, with schlatt wincing slightly and tubbo turning his head, looking over his shoulder with a slightly furrowed brow. he looked nothing alike. nothing in his face could be traced back to his own, not even the superfluous things such as his smile or the look in his eyes, as some old drunkard on the corner once relayed to him when he was younger, getting dragged through the streets of new york city by his mother’s clamped hand. it had hurt, but he knew from a very early age that it was for his safety’s sake. too old to carry but too young to let roam and learn the city’s rules on his own, she had become his impartial tour guide, showing him the ropes for when he grew up and had to traverse the subway to school on his own, without a familiar face besides him or, rather, looming above him.

”dad . . .”

his son’s trailing voice interrupted his thoughts once again. he found himself doing this more often. drifting. he wouldn’t do it intentionally, but oftentimes his mind detached itself from the present reality, escaping into a sea of comforting memories where he didn’t have to deal with the fact that his tubbo was almost fully grown. it was only two more years until he was out of his reach for good, and schlatt found himself clinging to the remnants of a past that tubbo wasn’t even able to remember. it was like a knife in his chest, pain aching from the agitated, reopened wound that reminded him that tubbo didn’t even remember scribbling out the drawings still pinned to the fridge with an assortment of magnets, that he had no connection to the flimsy bits of paper that made schlatt smile at six every morning without fail.

”sorry, toby. still trynna break the habit.” he reached out, lightly gripping his son’s shoulder and give it a light squeeze. “you know how hard it is for your old man to get with the times.”

and yet he still called him tubbo.

he nodded with a faint grin, leaving his father standing at the crux between the kitchen and the small living room as the bell rang again, summoning him to his waiting friends and the usual teenage activities that he was supposed to be worrying about. he watched the door crack open and closed, catching a glimpse of wilbur lingering at the bottom of the concrete stoop and an overly-excited tommy hopping up to meet him. as schlatt turned back to the coffee machine, the three of them spilled into the cluttered gardenfront that was overlooked by the kitchen window. through the slight white glare that the glass had caught the sunlight in, schlatt watched as they laughed with one another, voices greatly muffled as the dodged the planters of tomatoes and other fresh vegetables that schlatt had planted earlier in the spring. the next time he blinked, they were gone, and his phone buzzed with the text message that they were going to the movies before going to meet up with some other friends.

schlatt gripped the edge of the sink, leaning his weight onto his arms. he let out a loud sigh, hanging his head above the dirty dishes. he could feel himself slipping, concentration growing hazier with each passing week. messing up the wrenches at work had turned into days blending into one another, become one muddled mess of the same, reoccurring scenery that never ended up soothing him anymore. he understood why people said that purgatory was worse than hell; the never-ending expansion of emptiness made him feel listless, paranoid. he stared at the window at his green-tinted tomatoe plants, remembering how tubbo had turned down his offer to plant them with him, remembering how excited he would’ve been to do so as a ten year old, remembering the small gap in his toothed smile that had long since been corrected by a year or two of braces.

he laughed, the sound tightening his chest and catching halfway up his throat, robbing it of its humorous edge. schlatt rubbed a palm against the warmth burning at the edges of his eyes. he felt like he had picked the wrong flower, plucking it from the earth only to realize that there was an angry bee buzzing within the pollen and petals. it felt like tentatively plucking at the edges of a stinger stuck in his skin, each attempt merely leading to more mounting pain. he went from his hands to his elbows, raking his fingers through damp hair that was getting ridiculously long. he’d have to cut it, but that had become just another menial chore that he kept putting off and off until he suddenly remembered that he had to do it through the daze of wandering down memory lane.

“ah man,” he said to his reflection in the window, hands still tangled in his hair, staring into the transparent outline of his eyes. “you’re really fucked, aren’t you?”

schlatt straightened out his back, hearing a small pop as the vertebrae slid back into place. the coffee had gone cold, but that didn’t mean much to him. he took a sip straight from the pot, hoping that a little kick in the ass would get him going for the day. the dishes, vacuuming the house, dusting the practically bare shelves, and a handful of other things that he had lined up swirled around his head as he took another sip, feeling the hint of caffeine resting heavy through the bitterness upon his tongue. it just wasn’t enough.

he sighed, reaching for the cabinets and the scotch whiskey—talisker, the label told him—hidden behind the assorted tea bag boxes and thin receipt clippings. the neck was devoid of liquid, and as he brought out a glass to pour it into, a little bit below the neck disappeared as well. he leaned back against the table, sipping it, staring at the white fridge that had become clustering with multi-colored magnets and photos over the thirteen years that tubbo has been under his care. a lot of the blurs of crayon were unreadable, nothing more than brown masses of a congealed rainbow disaster, but there were a few legible drawings that he had produced the older he got. a wonky bunny, nibbling on a bright, pink-petaled flower. a smiling cube on a quiz graded at a ninety-five, which was one of his first near-hundreds. his first hundred, though not pinned up, was proudly tucked away in one of the stacked folders that cluttered schlatt’s desk.

his eyes, however, lingered on a family portrait that his son had brought home from school, saying that it had to be a fantasy drawing amidst a bunch of other stuttered explanations as to why the two of them had horns growing out of their foreheads. schlatt regarding it with fondness, staring at his light stubble—he hadn’t grown out the chops at this point in tubbo’s life—and the ram’s horns that curled over a swirl of dark brown hair. tubbo himself had goat’s horns, tiny little triangles that sat upon a blob of fleshy tones and various greens. the height difference was nonexistent, though he towered over his son’s small stature and had for years. he stared at the drawing, letting himself get lost in the childish strokes as he poured himself some more whiskey, leaving the bottle out to indulge in for later.

he felt the burning warning of tears returning and wiped at his eyes, but he was unable to catch them in time. tears spilled down the curve of his cheeks, vigorously wiped over his skin by the back of his calloused hand. he patted at the wet flesh before curling the hem of his sleeve between a forefinger and thumb to properly dry the weakness. but they just kept coming, clinging to his lashes and ebbing like waves battering an ocean shore. each blink blurred his vision further until all he could make out with the slight impression of magnets and paper edges. the whiskey had burned the taste of black coffee from his tongue, leaving him to enjoy the fiery, almost insulting, taste of wasted money. he always promised himself that he wouldn’t buy more, but then he always found himself perusing the liquor store for a cheap bite of alcohol.

schlatt hung his head again, fingers tight around the glass that he nursed against his chest.


End file.
